


Change is just another challenge

by AliceTheBrave



Series: Fighting, Flying, and Falling 101: A Mandalorian Romance [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Gen, Paz made a 'your mom' insult and I'm sorry, They just insult each other, childhood nemesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29282034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceTheBrave/pseuds/AliceTheBrave
Summary: In all the time since buir had brought them to this Covert Din had never really interacted with the children.There was a hierarchy to these things and Paz Vizsla had already established himself at the top. Any moment of weakness would reaffirm that standing and put Din firmly below him in their Class’ pecking order. Din wasn’t about to play by those rules.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Paz Vizsla
Series: Fighting, Flying, and Falling 101: A Mandalorian Romance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2137011
Comments: 1
Kudos: 35





	Change is just another challenge

In all the time since _buir **[i]**_ had brought them to this Covert Din had never really interacted with the children.

He did not mind, really. He spent his time with his _buir_ , travelling, training, learning. He was determined to swear the Creed with the other younglings of his age. He did not have the benefit of being born to the _‘ade **[ii]**_ as most of them had, had even fewer years of being raised in it than most Foundlings his age. He had to train hard and learn quickly. He didn’t have time to sit around and wrestle in between games of _cu’bikad **[iii]** _and _meshgeroya **[iv]**_.

He trailed after his _buir_ as she drifted through the galaxy, watching, listening, learning. At first – before she had allowed him to call her _buir_ , when they were still knew to each other, when he still said prayers in a tongue he could barely remember to Gods he had already forgotten – she had left him behind with whatever ‘ _ade_ they had joined. She would go and fight and helmets would bend and whisper of a War that he could not see but that they all could feel.

They had left that Covert and she had stopped fighting the War. Now she drifted between planets, finding battles and challenges of the smaller variety. He did not understand but he supposed that it did not matter, as long as she took him with her.

So, they travelled to distant planets, and she fought battles for honor and challenge, and if they were lucky, for money. She would spend what she dared for them, for the ship, for weapons and food and the hole in his shirt, before she gave the rest to whatever Covert they called home at the time. The Covert was always grateful, always praised her and called her honorable, and she would always leave a few days later to do it all again.

Din would sit behind her in the little alcove he had claimed in a recess of the cockpit’s bulkhead, and wonder if she hated it there. If the enclosed spaces, and the dim halls, the blank visors always watching, always assessing, made her skin itch beneath her armor. He wondered if the walls of the Razor Crest were somehow less constricting than that of the place they called home.

She did not speak much, she did not ask him to speak more than he wanted to, and he was grateful. They drifted around the galaxy, the two of them, a deadly Hunter and her little shadow. He watched her take apart and clean her weapons every day and every night he would mimic the motions in his little hammock strung across the main berthing. She would speak a new language when negotiating fuel prices at the last space port and he would race to download holo-dictionaries on the Pad that she had given him. She would turn a certain way in battle, and he would attempt it as he went through his drills. She would watch and shake her head and knock him down and pull him back up. She would be silent all day only to start a conversation in the language he did not know she knew he had been studying. She sang him songs of Mandalore, and taught him their history, their heritage. She held him silently when the red lights of the Razor Crest could not lull him to sleep and the night and the loss pressed in too close.

He studied, and he trained, and fought, and he survived. He would take the Creed and join the Fighting Corps. He would bring honor. He would become _Mandokar **[v]**_ , like her. He would grow strong and he would return to her and together they would take the Razor Crest around the galaxy, two Hunters. He would repay her for all she did for him.

But the Fighting Corps contained a challenge he had not anticipated; other Trainees.

He did not know what to do with other children. He had not any playmates since _buir_ had taken him in. They moved too often for him to find any attachments in the _Mando’ade_ and no child on any foreign world was brave enough to do more than stare wide eyed at the Mandalorian boy. The Hunter’s boy. The Warrior boy.

He scowled beneath his new helm, trying to find his bearings in the sea of chattering youngling’s around him. It hadn’t been this bad during the Trials. Apparently, the others had been too focused or nervous to be as loud as they were naturally. To his discomfort, twenty odd newly minted Mandalorian Trainees were a boisterous bunch. Vocoders crackled out laughter and yelling and jeering at decibels that should be reserved for battlefields. Some had taken off their _buy’ce **[vi]**_ to all the better celebrate with their friends and while it blessedly cut out the digital hiss of their noise it unfortunately only encouraged them to be louder.

Din stood off to the side, as far from the amassed group as he could, and desperately waited for their instructor to arrive.

His _buir_ had been strangely talkative when she had brought him.

“Have you brought all your belongings, _Prudi’ika_?[vii]” She had asked, handing him his single bag as they stood outside of the barracks.

“Yes, _Buir_ ,” he had answered dutifully, though he thought it was strange that she would ask after he had already answered the question before they had left the Crest. She never repeated herself.

She had nodded at him, turning to assess the building in which he would be living for the foreseeable future. It was probably easier for her this way. Without him living with her full time she would have to budget less of her earnings, have less to worry about as she hunted. Less weight to bear across the galaxy. She could rest easy knowing that he was safe with the Corps. That he was being trained to follow the Way.

He hoped that she would come collect him when she was able. Trainees lived in the barracks, but they were never kept from their _aliit **[viii]**_. Outings and evenings spent with one’s family were permitted, even encouraged. Afterall, there was wisdom that a family could provide that the Corps could not.

“You did well in your Trials,” she had said, turning to look at him, her voice thick in a way he had heard only rarely, and only ever in times of great distress, “you will do well here.”

He had blinked up at her in surprise, thrown off by the assurance in her words. She was always absolute, even when she was comforting him, as if by her very word all the terrible things that were in the universe could be held at bay. He believed that they could. She did not comfort him often, not unless he needed it. It was not the Way. He did not know why she would comfort him now. There was no danger here. Only change. She always told him to expect change. Anticipate it. React, adapt, and carry on.

“I will bring you honor, _”_ he said, in lieu of anything else to say. It was all he hoped for.

“Do not do this for me,” She said, kneeling to his height, gloved hands resting heavy on his shoulders, “such honors are wasted on the likes of me. When you do this, you do it for yourself. For your pride, for your honor. You are strong Din. This alone brings me pride. Whatever glory you win, it is yours.” She leaned in, and tapped her helmet to his, old paint flaking onto shiny new _beskar_.

He reached up now to touch the place where she had been, hoping vainly that there would still be paint flecks there. A scratch or smudge, anything to show others that she had touched him there, had held him close and with pride. He had no Clan sigil to show their relation, no clan name, or history. He had nothing but her and her pride in him and the little alcove he had claimed in the recess of the Razor Crest’s cockpit.

He had nothing but all that she had taught him. Here he would take that seed and watch it grow. He would not squander the gift that she had given him.

“Bell still ringing, Djarin?” Came a voice, arrogant and mocking, and Din dropped his hand immediately. He looked up into a black visor rimmed with blue paint, helmet tilted to the side in an assured gesture of familiarity that Din knew for a fact no one had rights to. Not with him.

He glanced at the cuirass – also blue – and the stylized screech hawk emblazoned on it in violent white lines told him what he should have figured out from the pompousness of this guy alone.

“Viszla,” he acknowledged, because while the guy was clearly arrogant and more than a bit hot headed, he also nearly won against Din in single combat. If _Alor **[ix]** _had not called a tie when he had Din could not honestly have said who would have won. Or who would have died. He held no illusions that either of them would lose any other way. Paz Vizsla was insufferable, but he was _madokar._

“I didn’t see you at the Swearing,” Paz said, sliding up to lean against the wall by Din’s side, as if he belonged there, as if he had been invited, “did your Clan do it privately? Riktan did theirs in private, their folks weren’t thrilled but hey, public speaking was never part of the Creed, was it.”

He tilted his head toward Din in a way that implied a smile and a joke, but Din did not get it nor did he feel particularly like smiling right now. He was itching to distance himself from the larger Trainee, but he knew better than to concede ground so obviously. Joking as he may be, there was a hierarchy to these things and Paz Vizsla had already established himself at the top. Any moment of weakness would reaffirm that standing and put Din firmly below him in their Class’ pecking order. Din wasn’t about to play by those rules. If Paz’s friendship came at the cost of being subservient to him, Din would gladly throw it in his face.

“I swore the Creed, it was witnessed,” Din said, staring out at the crowd of Trainees and purposely ignoring the other’s presence as much as he could, “the circumstances aren’t really your business.”

Vizsla was silent for a moment, before he stood up straight, all traces of familiarity slipping away. There was the proper Vizsla son, Mandalore’s finest. Din sneered beneath his helmet but still didn’t tur n his head.

“No, it’s not,” Paz said, voice flat before he shrugged and turned to look at the others just as Din was, “just thought I’d make sure though. With no one around but the _Beroya_ I’m sure some of the finer points of it all got lost. After all, she’s too busy to coddle you all the time. I’m surprised she even had the time to teach you _Mando’a **[x]**_. You do know your _Resol’nare **[xi]**_ , don’t you?”

Din bristled and turned to glare at the other, but Paz just kept staring ahead, smugness radiating from him even as Din clenched hands and teeth.

Of course, Din knew _Mando’a_. Of course, he knew the _Resol’nare_. He wouldn’t have been able to swear the Creed without that knowledge, wouldn’t have even been able to attempt the Trials. It was the very fundamentals of their culture, their people. The core of what made them Mandalorian in a tangible way. The thing they all shared, their language, their beliefs.

 _Buir_ had taught him those things first, before she had claimed him as hers, before he had decided to take the Creed or follow the Way. All Foundlings kept those things by right even if they left the _Mando’ade_.

To suggest that she had neglected to teach him those basic things, that she couldn’t be bothered to see to even those basic duties, was to question her honor, her right to raise any child. Din felt anger like he hadn’t felt in a long time burn through him at the slight.

She had held him through his terrors those early days and sung him the _Resol’nare_ rhyme, had lifted him from hell fire and blood shed, had taught him how to grieve and survive, and this _shabuir **[xii]** _thought that he could imply that she had broken one of the tenants by not even seeing to his _ba’jur **[xiii]** _and get away with it.

“ _Ne shab'rud'ni, **[xiv]**_ Din growled, stepping into Paz’s space, though he had to tilt his head up to look into his visor. Paz snorted and leaned to say something before a slam and shout drew their attention.

“All right, settle down!” Ordered a tall Mando in full armor, his voice carrying around the room like a thunderclap. “New Trainees, I’ll be your instructor for orientation. Grab your kits and fall in, we’ve got work to do. Height line, let’s go, go ,go!”

Paz clicked his tounge in disappointment and threw Din a mock salute before he jogged up to the front of the group. Din seethed in the back, hoping his glare could be felt through his helmet.

Never mind the other Trainees, Din was going to have his own personal trial with this asshole alone.

* * *

[i] Buir: Parent

[ii] ‘ade: Shortened version of Mando’ade (lit. the Children of Mandalore); a group of Mandalorians

[iii] Cu’bikad: Mandalorian game supporting up to four players involving small blades being stabbed into a checkered board.

[iv] Meshgeroya: Lit. The Beautiful Game, aka Bolo-ball or Limmie, it is essentially space-rugby/American football.

[v] Mandokar: The epitome of Mandalorian virtues; aggression, tenacity, loyalty, and a lust for life.

[vi] Buy’ce: Helmet; lit. pint or bucket

[vii] Prudi’ika: Little shadow, a term of endearment from _prudii_ meaning shadow and the diminutive suffix _‘ika._

[viii] Aliit: Clan; family.

[ix] Alor: Leader; chief; chancellor; etc.

[x] Mando’a: Mandalorian language.

[xi] Resol’nare: The six tenants of Mandalorian life, the creed they live by.

[xii] Shabuir: Jerk but much stronger; asshole; general insult of someone and their character.

[xiii] Ba’jur: Education; one of the six tenants is to educate one’s children, especially in the area of Mandalorian culture.

[xiv] Ne shab'rud'ni: Don’t mess with me; back off; a warning likely to be followed by violence.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: AliceTheBrave  
> Twitter: ally_alice_als


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